by Laura Kemp
THE LATE BLOSSOMING OF FRANKIE GREEN
Laura Kemp
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.aria-fiction.com
About The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green
Frankie Green’s happy ever after is put on hold when her childhood sweetheart husband complains things are boring in bed.
When he asks for some space, she sets out to win him back by getting herself a sex education.
Little does she know that her hilarious, tender and embarrassing journey of enlightenment is going to change everything...
A story full of humour, heartache and happiness, of friendship, coming of age and overcoming insecurity.
For the friends who are family
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
About The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green
Dedication
One night in May…
Two Months Later, a Tuesday Night in July…
Wednesday
That Night
The Next Day…
Saturday
Later…
The Next Day
Three Days Later
Meanwhile…
Back at Frankie’s…
Thursday
Monday Morning
Later
The Next Day…
Thursday Night: Lesson One
Meanwhile…
Back At Frankie’s…
Saturday Morning
Meanwhile…
Monday
Tuesday Night
Thursday, Lesson Two
At the Same Time…
Back at Frankie’s
Saturday
Meanwhile…
Tuesday Afternoon
Thursday Night
Meanwhile… Lesson Three
Monday Night
Tuesday
Wednesday Night
Meanwhile…
At the Same Time… Lesson Four
Friday
Sunday
Tuesday
Saturday
That Night – Lessons Five and Six
Monday
Tuesday Night
Wednesday
Meanwhile…
Thursday
Saturday Morning
Later
Meanwhile…
The Early Hours of Sunday Morning
Sunday Afternoon
The Early Hours of Tuesday
That Morning
Thursday
Meanwhile…
A Bit Later…
Saturday
Frankie
Six Months Later… April
Acknowledgments
About Laura Kemp
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
One night in May…
Frankie
Frankie shivered as she waited for Jason to unveil his surprise.
‘Keep your eyes closed,’ he said, rustling about with something as his movements shook the king-size bed.
With a smile on her face, she couldn’t believe that after fourteen years together he still made her all tingly. In fact, tonight was the tingliest she’d ever felt, she decided, as a wand of fairy dust sprinkled excitement on her toes, which raced all the way up her bare body. Except for the bits covered up by her new matching white M&S underwear.
It was their first wedding anniversary and they were in the same posh hotel room where they’d started life as Mr and Mrs Green.
Soon they’d be making love in their familiar way, his body on hers was all she desired. The girls teased her for having only slept with one person but she was so relieved she hadn’t had to kiss any frogs like they had – and still had to. But his muscular weight was the measure of their love; it was solid and secure and, secretly, she wanted to feel possessed by her man. Just as she had done at lunch when he led the way to their table overlooking Cardiff Bay’s glorious waterfront. Their hideaway was only ten minutes from their house in the city but she saw no need, and had no desire, to go anywhere else.
‘This way, Mrs Green,’ he’d said, guiding her to her seat with his lovely old-school manners. She had a glass of pink fizz, her favourite, while he had a bottle of some fancy lager, one he hadn’t tried before, then he’d tried to persuade her to try some chorizo. But she stuck to her trusted bangers and mash followed by banoffee pie – the exact meal they’d had for their wedding breakfast.
The only fly in the ointment had been when she’d brought up starting a family next year. A cloud had crossed his usually cheerful face. He didn’t think he felt ready, he’d said, taking her hand and squeezing it affectionately. ‘I just want to enjoy us for a bit longer, there’s so much fun to be had. It was a big enough deal to get married, wasn’t it?’ he’d said, smiling his irresistible smile.
She’d felt bitterly disappointed, not because she felt broody. After all, they did have masses to finish in the house and she honestly had nothing to worry about because she had years before her biological clock started ringing. But because that’s what couples did, wasn’t it? Domestic bliss equalled the patter of tiny feet. She was tired of her hairdressing clients asking when she was going to have a baby. On the plus side, Frankie was flattered he still prized her company and didn’t want to share her after all this time.
They’d met in the first week of college: he was her first and only boyfriend and she loved it that way. She was forever his Tinkerbell, the pet name he had given her from day one, owing to her long blonde hair, blue eyes and her figure that back then was a perfect hourglass, but was now a tad plumper thanks to her love handles. He was the only one for her. He was perfect, with his boyish good looks and easy-going nature. He was positive, kind, generous and…
‘Almost ready, Tink,’ he said, from his pillow. She beamed, hearing the thrill of anticipation in his voice. What was he going to produce? A piece of jewellery, maybe, or some lingerie? Whatever it was, she would adore it because he knew her taste was simple but elegant.
There was the muffled sound of fabric then a click. It was all too much for Frankie so she peeped through her eyelashes. And then she wished she hadn’t. In the place of the box from Tiffany’s she’d been hoping for was a fluffy black handcuff attaching one of her blindfolded husband’s wrists to the bed railings. He’d used her scarf, her best flowery one in fact, to tie round his head to hide his eyes. Inside her head she screamed ‘Oh my God’ but she was so horrified, the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, her eyes nearly popped out of her skull.
‘Frankie? Are you there?’ Jason said. ‘Say something! What do you think?’ he asked, as if he was showing her a new T-shirt.
‘You… look like a hostage,’ she said, aghast at how the blindfold made his crew cut and stubble seem like he’d been taken captive. Wincing, she knew this wasn’t what he’d intended. It was a good job he couldn’t see her face, which was contorted with shock and disgust. Kinky sex had never appealed to her – whenever she came across it in magazines, she’d flick past to find the romantic questionnaire instead. Mum had given her a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey and while Frankie had soaked up the love story, she was bewildered by all the equipment.
Jason’s laughter turned her stomach now. ‘Come on!’ he said, ‘I’m your slave, do whatever you want to me.’
She ran through her options like a shopping list: lock herself in the loo? Say she had a headache? Or have a go? But what was she supposed to do to him, specifically? Cover him in whipped cream and call him Margaret?
‘The only thing I think I’m capable of, Jason, is tickling you,’ she said, wincing at her
cluelessness as her fingers wiggled. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just confused, this is so out of the blue.’ She pulled his mask up onto his forehead so he looked like a camp Rambo; she needed eye contact. That way they could be honest, which was how they’d always operated. But while his big brown eyes usually shone with warmth, now they were hurt.
‘I was just trying to liven things up,’ he said, staring down. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘Because…’
‘Because?’ she asked, warily. What was going on?
‘I dunno, things are a bit, you know, predictable in bed, that’s all.’
‘Oh,’ Frankie said, touching her face as if his words had slapped her cheek. She smarted from both the shock of his confession and the naive shame that she hadn’t realized he’d been unsatisfied when she thought they were a flawless fit. ‘You never mentioned it…’
‘No,’ he said, meeting her gaze with embarrassment, then looking away again.
A chill snaked its way around her heart as she waited for him to elaborate. But he remained quiet, pensive.
‘We’re okay, aren’t we?’ she asked nervously, searching his troubled face for a smile. Because they did it twice a week, which was ‘very good’ according to the experts. And Jason always seemed content afterwards. ‘Oh, God, is it because I’ve put on a bit of weight over the last year? It’s just because I’m so happy, that’s all.’
‘No, don’t be silly, you’re perfect,’ he said, reaching for her hand then placing it down softly on the duvet as if it was porcelain. ‘Maybe that’s the problem. You’re too perfect.’
‘What? I don’t understand,’ she said, wishing – no, praying that he would leap up, yell ‘joke!’ and they’d have a laugh then clean their teeth together, like they did every night. But he was silent. It was a very bad sign. There was no denial, no ‘everything is fine’. This was even more worrying than the sight of him trussed up. ‘Jase?’ she asked, her heart running up her throat with fear as the bed tilted and she lost her balance.
‘I love you, you know that, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a tiny voice, with her heart now in her mouth, terrified of what was about to happen. This was how people started talking when there was a heartbreaking and life-changing ‘but’. When bad things happened and they became defining ‘before’ and ‘after’ moments. Like the time Mum told them she was leaving. She pushed the memory of her parents’ split out of her mind; she was anxious enough already and didn’t need to think of that too. This wasn’t supposed to be happening to her. ‘What is it?’ she said, panicking. ‘Because whatever it is, we can put it right. We’re in love. We’re together forever, like you always said, remember?’
But, oh, Frankie’s fear mounted as he failed to answer her. It was a pathetic sight as Jason sighed heavily, unlocked the handcuff and threw his mask to the floor. He turned his back to her, sitting on the edge of the bed, bent his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. Then he spoke. ‘Don’t you ever wonder what else is out there, Frankie? Don’t you wonder if we got together too young and we missed out on stuff? Like, we needed a change but we thought the wedding was the next step instead of being brave enough to live a little, then settle down. Don’t you ever wonder that?’
Inside, she screamed, “No, never” – but her voice let her down. She wanted him to stop – how much more could she take? – but she could see by his drooping posture that he wasn’t finished.
‘Ever since we got married, I’ve felt sort of numb. Lost. As if everything’s a grey blur. I even went to see a doctor, thinking I had something wrong with me. But there wasn’t. I knew then I wasn’t happy. And it’s not fair on you to carry on. Because I can’t. Not like this. I’m so, so sorry.’
His words were clearly well-rehearsed which was the most hurtful thing of all. He’d obviously been waiting to tell her. This wasn’t some spur of the moment thing; he meant it.
Panicking, she stalled for time. ‘The doctors? Why didn’t you tell me? We tell each other everything.’ He just shook his head. ‘We can sort it out,’ she pleaded, desperate now. ‘We know each other inside out.’ Jason’s shoulders began to shrug as he broke down.
She reached out to him, trying to steady him yet he remained aloof. ‘Please, Jason, tell me you’re not giving up on us?’
‘I can’t… It isn’t.’
Frankie hugged herself, feeling pain at the charade of their marriage, at how differently they saw their futures. ‘Oh, God, no,’ she whimpered as the tears came. This time, he turned around and embraced her and they hung onto each other, seeking a comfort that was impossible to find.
‘I wish I didn’t feel like this,’ he offered. ‘I never wanted to hurt you. I love you so much, Tink.’
She moved back from him, her breathing quickening. ‘You’re talking as though that’s it. It can’t be, you can’t just announce all of this as though it’s your thing. It’s our thing.’
‘I just feel overwhelmed,’ he said, ‘like my whole life is planned out. It’s not that I want to travel the world or anything, I just feel hemmed in. I need some time… Some time out.’
‘So go on holiday, do a climbing course, learn to fly, maybe that’s all you need,’ she said, madly trying to convince herself that was the answer. ‘If it’s the baby thing, we can wait for a few years,’ she said over-brightly, as if it was the most reasonable offer going.
‘I don’t feel as if I’ll ever be capable of being responsible enough for fatherhood. I need to sort my head out. Away from…’
‘Me,’ she whispered, ‘Away from me.’ She felt nauseous at his retreat. ‘How have we gone from being happily married half an hour ago to this? How did I not see this coming?’ she wailed.
Even as she said this she began to make a mental list of all the times he’d worked late to avoid coming home, the appointments he’d made up to get out of choosing new kitchen tiles, and the excuses he’d come up with to prevent any plans taking shape. Frankie had translated all of them as signs he was preparing to feather their nest as their marriage headed towards its next phase of parenthood. She’d thought all those extra hours at his dad’s scaffolding business and refusing to go on holiday this year had been about him preparing for the future. But it had been his escape. From her. She wept as she registered that everything she thought was true had been pulled from under her and was now out of reach.
Her vision swimming with tears, she felt the terror build. ‘So what now then? Because you seem to have it all worked out.’
‘I think I should move out, give us both some space. So we can work things out. If we can.’
It was all too much to take in.
‘Is there someone else?’ she asked, eager to lay the blame elsewhere, convincing herself if it was just a quick fling with another woman then it could be overcome. Failing that, she could find a reason to hate him.
‘No, of course not, it’s not about anyone else, it’s about me. And you.’
‘If it’s the sex thing, I can change, I can,’ she said, knowing but not caring that it was a desperate and hollow plea.
‘I’m so sorry, Frankie,’ he said, suddenly looking exhausted.
It was over. She could see he’d made up his mind. Frankie felt herself tumbling off the edge, grabbing empty fistfuls of air. Freefalling, she was losing everything she’d ever wanted. The love of her life, her best friend, her soulmate, her future, their past. Terror took its place. She was going to be alone, without him. She didn’t want to let go, she wanted to hold on, but he was out of reach. If only she could handcuff herself to him now.
Two Months Later, a Tuesday Night in July…
Frankie
A plump pink blob which curled slightly at one end appeared beneath Frankie’s nose and she wanted to cry. How was she expected to put that in her mouth?
She looked at Letitia, who was nodding encouragingly at her.
‘Go on, babes, try it,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit rubbery, it is, but I guarantee, the “pulpo” is totall
y lush.’
Frankie gulped and turned to Em, who was prodding it with her fork.
‘Cephalopoda mollusc. Among the most intelligent and behaviourally diverse of all invertebrates. The scientific Latin name of octopus derives from ancient Greek, which translates as “eight-foot”.’
‘That doesn’t help, to be honest, Em,’ Frankie said, holding her throat. ‘Can’t I just start with the patatas bravas or those ham croquette things, because this is my first time trying tapas and, you know, I need to work up to it.’
Over the table packed with exotic dishes, Letty pouted her Spanish genes; she was all crimson lips, with flashing eyes. She finished off by tossing her señorita mane of black curls with a bare shoulder, peeping out of a stunning, and, by the looks of it, expensive black pencil dress. Then she broke the spell with a brazen cackle which revealed her closer Valleys girl roots, which were all heart and gob.
This had been Letty’s idea to get Frankie back out there and broaden her horizons. She’d resisted her invites for weeks, preferring to stay in with the girls because she’d wanted to hide from the world. And, privately, she’d thought, on the off chance, that she’d be there if Jason appeared at the door of their marital home, where she remained after he moved out. But then she’d run out of excuses – and Jason hadn’t come back. Reluctantly, she had realized her friends only wanted to help. Even so, she still felt the fear, staring down some tentacles.
The restaurant was smack bang in the city centre, fifteen minutes away for all three of them, albeit from different directions. Frankie was from across the river in the busy and cheerful suburb of Canton where she was born and bred, Letty was living it up in the boho-chic area of Pontcanna while Em called the shiny redeveloped docklands of Cardiff Bay home.
To Frankie, Viva Tapas was all exotic and low-lit, with clattering pans and hisses of steam where the chefs worked in an open-plan kitchen-diner. The stainless steel set-up was very dramatic, but she could never live with something so stark and clinical; the wooden units of her kitchen made her two-up two-down in a quiet cul-de-sac homely and safe. Well, they had before Jason had gone. The heavy wafts of sherry and garlic were atmospheric, but she found it a bit overpowering. It was boiling in here too, not helped by the raging heatwave which had wilted her top-knot on her walk into town.
